


Solace

by Pares (kormantic)



Series: Three Piece Suit [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Crying Mulder, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-05-13
Updated: 1998-05-13
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/Pares
Summary: Skinner interrupts a long dark teatime of the soul.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Janis, this story is for you. Much thanks to Janis, My Pal Carla and the one, the only, the Punker than thou. My goodwill toward you all is indescribable. My heart beats a skip...

Mulder was pacing the squalid motel room like a caged coyote. The last one Skinner had seen outside of The Discovery Channel had been at a zoo, where It had moved as fretfully and with as much demented focus as Mulder did now, half mad with seething restlessness. This particular coyote was wearing running shorts and gleaming with sweat in the low, dancing light of one fat candle.

Skinner shoved the door wide open, and folded his arms across his chest. For a long moment, he allowed himself to look past the man's distress, and saw only the muscular, longboned animal grace. He gave himself a guilty start by wishing for his glasses. Skinner had had no intention of rudely ogling this man; he reminded himself that he'd come to talk Mulder down off whatever ledge his self-blame had goaded him onto.

He cleared his throat for effect, and finally, after having pacing his room for nearly half an hour, Mulder came to a halt.

"Do you have any idea what time it is, Agent Mulder?"

"Will I date myself if I say 'Howdy Doody Time,' sir?"

Even the kind glow of candle light couldn't disguise Mulder's haggard face. He looked haunted and bone-weary, and bowed with guilt.

"Agent Mulder. You've had a long day. Why don't you get some rest?"

Mulder dropped his pretense of humor and merely stared at his boss. It was a disinterested look, as if the Assistant Director were a particularly unexciting feature of the dark paneled room.

"I can't sleep. It's too hot," he said finally.

Skinner would have liked to attribute his own sleeplessness to something as uncomplicated as the weather. The thunderstorm that might have changed the day's events had it come earlier in the day, had instead arrived in time to help the motel, with its no doubt already dubious wiring, lose power. The storm had rolled out quickly, taking with it what seemed like every breath of air.

"If you're prepared to pony up your own money, there's a bed and breakfast about an hour from here--"

"I don't want to be that far away from the hospital."

Skinner unfolded his arms, and suddenly remembered that he was wearing only pajama pants. Intending to give Mulder a dressing down, and here _he_ was in pajamas. Not that Mulder had seemed to notice. Skinner thanked any relevant gods for small favors.

"She's going to be fine, Mulder. The doctors assure me that she's out of danger. At this point, it's mostly just fatigue and dehydration."

"Yeah. If I'm lucky she'll be healthy enough to hate me by morning."

"Agent Scully's fared worse in your company and hasn't left you yet."

This earned him the blank reproach of Mulder's naked back, and Skinner winced internally at his misstep.

"She might have died," Mulder announced flatly.

Recalling the police report, Skinner sighed and massaged his forehead.

"Mulder, according to the park ranger, you carried her for _six miles_... I think that will settle the debt. Besides, you were on assignment; you couldn't have anticipated the way she'd react to the sunblock--"

Mentally, Skinner again cursed and thrice-cursed the cancer that had nearly taken Scully, and left her vulnerable now, since her convalescence, to things like allergic reactions to previously innocuous chemicals...

"We didn't find him," Mulder murmured. "We searched every cave. They're dragging the river. They think he may be trapped under some... some... There's a sawmill in Gavers, and they still send the logs downstream...

"The kid's dead, was probably dead when we got here," Mulder flexed his hands and stared at them as if they were not his own. "Scully nearly died for nothing. Because I wouldn't leave it alone. I couldn't give up on him..." His long hands relaxed, defeated.

His throat tight, Skinner decided that Mulder was probably still dehydrated, and that the oppressive heat wasn't helping any. Given his talent for remorse, Mulder may not have felt worthy of the electrolytes the paramedics had urged on him. Checking around, Skinner caught sight of three, surprisingly, empty bottles.

"Mulder, you need to get off your feet. Do you want another bottle of Gatorade?"

"I'd only puke it up like the last three," Mulder replied dully.

Skinner felt an unexpected jolt of anger, and frowned unconsciously. Mulder's callous disregard for his own safety had always been a sore point for Skinner. It was irresponsible, and more than that it was... discomfiting.

Skinner had come to resent Mulder for that pale, tight cast Scully's face took when she was worried over her partner. But Mulder didn't need recriminations, and Skinner felt his ire soften into something like pity. The man was so densely armored and yet so oddly vulnerable that it was almost... endearing.

Skinner wasn't sure that this word actually conveyed what he felt, but it would do.

Certainly, something about Mulder inspired a desire to keep him out of harm's way. And while Skinner felt this to a degree about all his agents, only Mulder, and Scully, had actually caused him sleepless nights. There were times he'd had to actively keep himself from wringing his _hands_ , for God's sake.

And in the last year, he'd begun to have a recurring dream. Sometimes, he would answer a knock at the door and be met by a stammering Mulder, with blood on his hands, repeating a toneless mantra of, "I lost her, I lost her, I lost her..." For cheerful variation on a theme, it was Scully as often as not, stoic, trying not to tremble, saying, "Sir... Mulder-- He's..." and never finishing, because it was enough.

Those were the mornings he took two aspirin with his juice. He found himself thinking back to those dreams. Clearly, he remembered opening the door... Surely he hadn't just left the Dream Mulder out there, shivering on his doorstep? But no inspired memory presented itself.

Instead, Skinner stepped forward and reached out to take Mulder's shoulder.

Resigned, Mulder turned to face him. His cheeks were slick with tears, but his jaw was set defiantly.

"Sir, I think I could really use some 'me time' right about now..."

"Mulder," Skinner began, only to trail off. Suddenly ashamed, he dropped his eyes from Mulder's numb gaze. His hands felt empty... useless. He felt somehow unqualified for this. How could he reassure _Mulder_ of all people? What could he do to ease such an obliterating self-hatred? Was there solace enough in the world for the man who stood weeping before him?

"Maybe not," he murmured, not realizing that he'd spoken aloud.

Mulder started slightly, surely thinking this was a protest, and took a deep, ragged breath in order to argue his position. Instead of loosing a stream of well-crafted rhetoric, he sobbed. Clearly humiliated by this show of weakness before his superior, and so tired that he couldn't help himself, he only sobbed again, louder. Skinner could feel the other man's heat and misery eddy against his skin; he made his decision.

He took the man's face in his palms, smaller fingers grazing the swirls of his ears. Mulder blinked at him, so surprised he didn't breathe. Skinner shifted his hands slightly, thumbs bracketing the other man's mouth.

"Mulder." He raised himself slightly on the balls of his feet and pressed his lips to Mulder's frowning forehead. The younger man's skin flexed under his lips as Mulder's expression shifted...

The kiss had been so brief, Skinner almost thought he'd imagined it, but the wary question in Mulder's eyes was real enough. Skinner let his hands curl against the back of Mulder's head, thumbs settled just at the line of his jaw.

He met his agent's gaze, and felt the other man swallow, and wait.

Mulder's hair was damp, and he was trembling. Grief, exhaustion, and dehydration had frayed his self-control; he was absurdly open, and Skinner knew he resented it.

"You're tired, Agent Mulder," Skinner explained patiently. "And sometimes, you get so tired that you... have to let go."

His left hand cupped the back of Mulder's head, and tipped his face forward, down.

"She's all right, Mulder." Skinner kissed the fluttering hollow of Mulder's left eye. "You did everything you could." The fringe of lashes against his lips, the right eyelid.

He placed his thumbs in the hollows of Mulder's jaw and closed his hands around Mulder's skull. Slowly, Mulder's gaze, still glazed with misery, and now baffled wonder, locked again with Skinner's.

"You always do," he whispered.

For a long second, the world paused... No cricket creaked, no cars hummed past on the road outside, no breeze stirred the heavy leaves of old growth oaks. Then Mulder swayed a little, leaning in toward him, looping one arm around Skinner's shoulder and hiding his face against Skinner's throat. Skinner set his feet apart to take his weight. Mulder's wet cheek, the hot circle of his panting mouth, his heaving shoulders... Skinner held him, running his broad palm along Mulder's long back, and let him weep. He tried to ignore how _good_ it was to touch this man, and to forget how many times he had kept himself from doing so.

Skinner closed his eyes and tried to fight the impression that he was rubbing the gold of the candle light into Mulder's gilded skin. Licking his lips, which felt somehow scalded, and maybe gritted with the salt of Mulder's skin, Skinner began to give in. The man in his arms was slick and exhausted, and still, he smelled... Rich. Rare. Skinner turned his face into Mulder's hair and inhaled sweat, and dust from the field, and the lingering scent of Mulder's crisp shampoo, like motes of gold, as fine as pollen.

Mulder, for his part, clung to Skinner, chafing his cheek against Skinner's shoulder. Rubbing his eyes against his own forearm as he choked out what felt like the last few tears, he swallowed convulsively, and let his legs take his full weight again. Eventually, he stood back and slipped his arms from around Skinner's neck. Skinner felt the sticky pull of skin as bodies that had sweated together parted, and an unusual sensation of drag as Mulder's chest hair, mingled with his own, drew back with the man himself. His hair was matted and ruffed from sweat and Skinner's hands, and his eyes were clearer now.

With a look of fascination, he took Skinner's face between his hands, mirroring the older man's simple caress: fingers just skimming the whorls of the ear, thumbs a light pressure at the corners of his mouth, but not stroking the skin.

They made no move for a long time. There was nothing for Skinner to do but brave the searing, searching look of the man who held him. Skinner felt Mulder's hands fall away, and took a shallow, shuddery breath-- only to feel the other man's lips graze his, a humid breath steal against his cheek and chin as Mulder hovered there, experimental, observant, waiting.

This was not what he had planned. Gravely, he closed his eyes, and shook his head.

The other man's breath receded, and Skinner willed his body to relax... he could feel every nerve, every sense attune itself to Mulder's presence, and vowed to stop himself before--

Mulder took Skinner's left hand and pressed it against his cheek, his breath tickling Skinner's wrist. Skinner felt his own breath leave him, his palate suddenly aching. Such promise, such... Fox Mulder was the bravest man he'd ever met. But this was reckless, this was inappropriate, this was... his right hand molding itself to the curve of Mulder's cheek.

He could breathe again, but only just. Drawing the other man toward him, Skinner fought against the desire to crush Mulder to him; instead, he slipped his hands down and knitted his fingers behind Mulder's neck, leaning his forehead against his agent's.

"Mulder," he gritted, warningly. Mulder's eyes glowed.

"Sir," he whispered. And Skinner could _taste_ him, his breath, perversely cool against his lips, and minty from a recent bout of oral hygiene.

"Damn it, Mulder," he muttered, scraping his cheek against Mulder's, past the low bump of the man's mole, until they were temple to temple, his veins throbbing against the delicate bones that housed Mulder's formidable brain. "I can't--"

//I can't help myself.//

So he dragged the man's mouth to his, and met the stunning warmth of Mulder's kiss.

Desire made his limbs heavy. Too much gravity, he thought distantly. This means too much. Mulder's kisses were too open, too wrenching. His lips called to Skinner's cock, which butted itself against Mulder's hip, ready to answer. Skinner couldn't get close enough; Mulder's soft, soft mouth was going to drive him mad. His hands wandered, and the fact that he was groping a subordinate became ridiculously insignificant when Mulder gasped and bucked into Skinner's closing fist.

"You'll make me," panted Mulder, "make me--"

"Yes," promised Skinner huskily, closing his teeth on Mulder's earlobe. And he slipped his hand past the sweat-damp waistband and into the tenting fabric of Mulder's shorts and closed his fingers around the hot, silken shaft of Mulder's cock. Mulder leaned his head against Skinner's shoulder and murmured unintelligibly, restless hands kneading Skinner's back. His hips rocked against the rhythm of Skinner's hand; Skinner could feel his own erection throb in answer to Mulder's every motion, but he found it easy to ignore, so absorbing was the heft of Mulder's penis in his palm. His thumb massaged the head of Mulder's cock, slick now with pre-ejaculate. Mulder's cheek was in the hollow of Skinner's shoulder, his face to the wall. Resting his chin against the other man's hair, Skinner closed his eyes and found a rhythm. Mulder's low, responsive moans made the hair on Skinner's arms stand up, and the blood rush from his head.

There was no sense of time. Mulder's driving weight was beginning to make him tremble, but Skinner focused on the job at hand, cupped Mulder's muscled ass and caressed the agent's erection with a final firm, milking stroke. He saw Mulder's shoulders bow, and felt his hips stutter-- then a warm cream of release, and the bright focus of Mulder's teeth as they sank a bruising ring into the skin where Skinner's neck met his shoulder.

 _Yes_.

Mulder was still for a long moment, and Skinner pressed his mouth against the agent's flushed cheek.

When Mulder finally did stand, he seemed woozy, as if his joints had loosened. A flare of pride made Skinner smile at him. The man's eyes were soft, unfocused, and his mouth was swollen and... delectable. Skinner steadied the other man and kissed him again, sweetly.

"Sir," Skinner felt the clumsy grasp of Mulder's hand at his hip, tugging lightly at the waistband of his pajamas. "Let--"

"No," he said kindly. His own untended desire was a dull ache, but Mulder's climax had brought him a strong sense of satisfaction. Or so his mind maintained; his body disagreed, however, and rubbed itself, stiff nipples and insistent, jutting cock, against the man before him.

"No," he said again, when Mulder kissed his jaw, and let the pads of his fingers rest lightly on the pulse in Skinner's throat. "No, Mulder," a touch of panic this time, as Mulder began to sink to his knees, the friction of his sliding body making Skinner grit his teeth. He closed his hands on Mulder's shoulders and got him to his feet again.

Skinner let him go and walked over to the bed. Shoving the bed spread onto the floor, he turned the sheet down and pointed sternly.

Mulder looked miffed for a moment. Frowning slightly, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, made his way to the bed and sat down. Wearily, he slacked back, swung his legs in, and dragged the sheet up with a little huffed exhalation. Skinner left briefly, returning with a tumbler of tepid water and two damp cloths.

Mulder took the cloths without comment save a warm gleam of humor, and a few furtive movements under the sheets. There was the soft, intriguing _whump_ of clothing as Mulder kicked out of his shorts and tossed them, and one of the washcloths, on the floor. This done, Mulder wrung the second cloth out and held it to his swollen eyes for a moment before sipping his water. Slowly, he drained the glass and Skinner took it and the cloth back to the sink.

He left the glass on the bedside table this time, and lay the folded cloth over Mulder's closed eyes. He indulged the sudden impulse to stroke Mulder's hair back from his forehead. Then he straightened, allowed himself a last lingering look, and turned to leave; his erection would not subside, and he was beginning to feel vaguely ridiculous.

As he made his way from the room, Mulder's voice, still hoarse from sobbing, met his ears. He'd propped himself up on his elbow and dropped the cloth on the end table.

"Would you do me a favor, sir?"

Skinner felt his defenses slam into place; this was the part where Mulder would ask him to be discreet.

"Would you... Would you turn the television on?"

"Power's still out," Skinner reminded him.

"Right." A long pause. "Well, could you make a phone call or something?"

Irritated now, and preparing for the worst, Skinner rapped out, "Agent Mulder, is there someone specific you'd like me to contact?" Your lawyer, perhaps?

"No... No. It's just that... When I... I just want to hear someone talking."

Skinner felt a sting of remorse. Mulder was, after all, only trying to get to sleep. Many a bureau shrink had hinted that Mulder suffered from chronic sleep deprivation, and Scully had once confided that she was fairly sure Mulder spent most nights on his couch.

Dragging a chair from across the room, Skinner set it beside Mulder's bed. He fetched his glasses and the newspaper from his own bedside table, and took the chair. Settling his glasses on his nose, and ignoring Mulder's speculative look, Skinner drew the candle closer and began to read.

"Volkswagen stock is through the roof. Up three more points from yesterday. Pork bellies-"

Mulder collapsed back down and began to laugh softly; was that mockery?

Annoyed, and not little self-conscious, Skinner jerked his glasses from his face and glared at Mulder.

"It's not NPR, Mulder, but--"

The humor transmuted into a strangely wistful look. Mulder returned his eyes to the ceiling.

"Did you ever notice how in monster movies nobody gets munched as long as the radio stays on?"

"I can't say I have," replied Skinner, half-intrigued by the non sequitur.

A sigh.

"That's because it's not true. The bogeyman can get you even with the lights on these days. That's progress for you."

Skinner was an observant man, even intuitive. And had he been less intoxicated by the man he'd just touched, he would have been quicker to catch the question Mulder could not seem to ask.

Skinner thought for a moment about leaving the room, and allowing the impression of a one time incidence to finish their interaction. Instead, he stood up and blew out the candle. In the heavy, fragrant darkness he made his way into Mulder's bed and wrapped himself around the man in it. Mulder's hands slid over his skin, seeking, but Skinner locked them in his own.

"Sleep," he muttered, lips brushing the cup of Mulder's ear. "I'll be here in the morning."


End file.
